


...But Never Roses

by loveslashangst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John adds a new variable to the morning’s chemistry experiment. Sherlock provides the control. Observations of the reaction point to a new conclusion. (Subtext: Yes, Virginia, that was a metaphor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	...But Never Roses

John drifts up out of a deep sleep. A slightly-chilled nose nuzzles his ear. It’s a lovely, lazy sensation, made all the more enjoyable by the lithe heat of his flatmate, who is as feline in bed as everywhere else, spooning against his back. One of Sherlock’s arms holds him across his chest, possessive. John would feel like the consulting detective’s favourite teddy bear, if the other hand weren’t tracing slow circles at his belly. Sherlock knows how to arouse him from “sound asleep” to “fuck me now” in about three seconds flat.

Sherlock makes the low, happy humming purr that John now recognizes as his “good-you’re-awake-now-I-can-start-real-foreplay” indicator. A few weeks ago, John believed Sherlock had no libido to speak of. Finding out he was wrong was a pleasant surprise (to put it mildly), but even after that first bout of astonishingly good sex, he still would have laid £50 against Sherlock being a cuddler.

He’s glad to be wrong on both counts because -- though the sex is (pardon the pun) fucking fantastic -- this is the bit both he and Sherlock have been missing. Human contact. He’s spent so many years caring for and protecting others that it’s nice to indulge in the arms of someone else who enjoys snuggle-until-sleep as much as he does shag-into-mattress.

Sherlock mumbles something impatiently and begins a calculated nibbling of John’s shoulder. Apparently John’s not reacting quickly enough. The bastard knows just where to nip and just the right amount of teeth to use to get him to respond. Soft lips one moment, strong the next. Foreplay is as premeditated as everything else about Sherlock -- once he decides sex is a good idea, he single-mindedly applies every observation he’s made about what makes John hot to rocket him from “fuck me now” to a squirming “Sherlock-goddammit-fuckmeRIGHTNOW.”

The bed’s warm with their combined heat and scents. It’s lovely. Not just Sherlock’s usual traces of musk and tea overlaid with a fine blend of toxic chemicals. No. Peppermint. Sweet peppermint. Toothpaste. That means Sherlock’s been up for a bit and already been to the loo, which is his usual prelude to morning sex.

A sharp, minute pain makes John yelp. Sherlock’s neatly plucked one of his chest hairs. This is Sherlock shorthand for “go use the loo and brush your teeth so we can get on with the shagging.”

“One of these times, try without the hair-plucking,” he says firmly. “And you might even add a ‘please’, as an experiment.”

Sherlock makes the kind of noncommittal noise that means he’s heard John but hasn’t the slightest intention of obeying him. Fortunately, they’re still early stages in this bizarre relationship, so this is equal parts annoying and endearing.

It’s also a damn good thing his lover is brilliant in bed or John wouldn’t be willing to go starkers through an unnaturally cold flat for the sole purpose of eliminating morning halitosis.

And as he hurries through his routine, he looks downwards and realizes he’s developed a Pavlovian reaction to toothpaste. Peppermint is now intimately linked with foreplay. However, his libido thinks foreplay with Sherlock is a fantastic idea. Also, it’s bloody FREEZING out here, and the sooner he finishes, the sooner he can get back to bed.

Hands slide around John’s waist as the familiar heat and feel of a lanky body drapes over him. He relaxes into Sherlock’s embrace, smiling as his lover dips his head to resume gentle bites at John’s shoulder. The brush of Sherlock’s teeth is sensitizing at first -- just enough to make sure he’s paying attention. Then both embrace and nibbles intensify. The love bites become knee-weakening when paired with a shocking tweak of one nipple and the resumption of long fingers twining enticing circles through the fine hair on his belly.

He has to grip the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. He’s torn between wanting to hurry and the urge to draw this out as long as he can manage. His pride usually helps keep him on his feet, though Sherlock can be irresistible in his will to undo John.

John’s panting and flushed as he sets the brush back in its holder. “My dentist will have choice words for you.”

Sherlock’s grey eyes are dark with amusement in the mirror. “I’ll enjoy hearing you explain the cause of any neglect.”

Palms sweating pleasantly, John rinses and spits. “You are entirely self-centred.”

“And aren’t you glad?” Sherlock bites his shoulder hard, just the right side of pain. The shock of it wakes every nerve in John’s body, all traces of sleep forgotten.

“Why should I be?” But he turns in Sherlock’s arms, ignoring the cold line of porcelain against his arse in favour of the lithe, hot lines of his lover, and assaults Sherlock’s mouth with his.

“Because if you’re part of me,” Sherlock murmurs, “my being self-centred would now also include my being centred on you.”

It’s the kind of logic he’s come to expect from his beloved detective. John catches his hands in the curling silk of Sherlock’s hair and lets his eyes fall closed as Sherlock returns the kiss with equal fervour. One of Sherlock’s hands is low at John’s waist. The other presses the middle of his back.

As John’s mouth moves against Sherlock’s, the man makes another low rumble in his throat that usually translates as “I’m going to get what I want”. This annoyed John at first, but like so many other of Sherlock’s quirks, he now associates it with also getting what he wants. _Pavlovian training again,_ he thinks wryly. It is unnervingly plausible that Sherlock’s experimenting with human operant conditioning, using him as a test subject. It’s also a testament to the lunacy of their relationship that he can shrug off the thought and instead concentrate on the kissing.

Sherlock breaks the kiss with the same deliberation he does everything else. Kisses his way down John’s throat. John lets his head fall back, loving it.

“Bed,” says Sherlock’s hot breath against his throat.

“Mmpdfh,” he replies, which is not quite the “sounds good” he’d intended. He pushes off of the counter. Grabs Sherlock’s wrist. Leads him down the hall. Back to John’s room. Shuts the door behind them.

Sherlock curls one hand around his waist. Pulls him close. Caresses and strokes and presses his body to John’s with such intensity that John can’t help grinding against him.

Then he’s gone. John’s arms are suddenly empty, though he’s still panting and flushed and wanting. Sherlock glides to the bed and slides beneath the duvet, long legs disappearing in one graceful movement.

John holds onto his self-control as long as he can -- this is always more fun if he’s patient.

“Well?” The heat in those grey eyes belies Sherlock’s apparent calm -- as soon as John comes within pouncing range, Sherlock’s not going to let him up till he’s sated both their appetites.

The thought is ridiculously hot. Grinning, John steps into pouncing range.

Sherlock is a master of leverage. It’s a dizzying second-and-a-half from standing beside the bed to being flat on his back beneath an amorous Sherlock, but John dearly loves this part.

Sherlock rakes him with a look.

“Hungry?” John teases.

“Starving.”

John surrenders to the giddy joy of Sherlock’s body, pressing against his. The delicious friction of Sherlock’s cock, sliding along his. The heady assault of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock catches John’s hands. Presses them up above his head. Leans his forearms against John’s. Bites him under the chin, a gentle but firm press of teeth that is unmistakably the predator’s mark of ownership. _You are mine._ And another flash of almost unbearable heat rolls through him at the thought.

It’s impossible to resist Sherlock first thing in the morning, which is why John began to insist Sherlock wake him at least an hour early so the Morning Shag doesn’t result in his being late and having to endure Sarah’s my-patience-is-wearing-thin look.

Sherlock braces one arm against the mattress. Reaches for John’s dick. John reaches for his. They grin into each others’ mouths as leisurely fingers tease and taunt. Every time they do this, it’s a bit less tentative, and John is reassured to know that the sex has been as unexpectedly good for Sherlock as it is for him -- John because he hasn’t had a male lover since Murray (who was as non-judgmental as they come) and Sherlock because he hasn’t had a lover of any kind for more than a decade. From what John can tell, Sherlock’s celibacy has been for lack of interest, not lack of opportunity -- his singular, alien beauty draws more than his share of appreciative looks, which Sherlock shamelessly uses when it suits his purpose. Lately, Sherlock’s libido has verged on nymphomania, so John takes the intensity of their affair and the frequency of their couplings as a compliment.

Both of them have found someone worth the effort.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt anything that Sherlock is a bloody brilliant kisser, all strong mouth and slow tongue and control. Even when distracted by something else and fully clothed, it usually just takes one good snog to have John all but ripping their clothes off. He knows that Sherlock does it on purpose -- the man won’t be satisfied until every possible variable and permutation of “what turns John on” has been accounted for, hypothesized, experimented with, and tested for repeatability under variant conditions. Somewhere, he suspects privately, there is a lab notebook with “John Watson” on it, containing an extremely _detailed_ set of observations.

This is not a complaint, however. It’s been a long time since anyone laid John this often or this well.

With a darkly mischievous look, Sherlock dives under the duvet, a blur of damp friction along John’s body. John barely has time to register the motion before Sherlock grabs him by the hips and bodily drags him down the bed. With a muffled curse, John fumbles for a purchase in the sheets just before Sherlock swallows his dick to the root.

Oral sex with Sherlock is a bit like hand-to-hand combat -- intensely personal, heart-pounding, and John always tries to put up enough resistance that he doesn’t feel ashamed for inevitably losing. This time, however, instead of just sucking him fiercely until he either comes cursing and bucking or begs to be fucked, Sherlock curls round to recline head down beside him, groin -- and gorgeous erection -- pointedly but passively beside John’s head. Sherlock’s mouth is somewhat more leisurely than usual, which makes it possible to think, and to consider the silent request.

He’s never gone down on Sherlock (or any man, come to think of it). It’s weird, because he considers oral to be one of the more enjoyable parts of foreplay when he’s with a woman. By rights, he should be just as enthusiastic with a male partner, shouldn’t he? John supposes he ought to at least try, and is quietly grateful that Sherlock is distracted enough not to watch -- and his mouth is conveniently full so he won’t be able to comment -- should John prove to be rubbish at this.

Sherlock is well endowed. Unfairly so. As if otherworldly beauty and perfectly sculpted bone structure weren’t enough, really. It’s not that John has anything to apologize for -- indeed, Sherlock’s enjoyed him vociferously on several occasions -- just that… well it’s one thing when one’s being soundly fucked by a gorgeous cock, and another entirely to consider how to inhale the thing without choking or gagging.

“John,” purrs the deep baritone as Sherlock licks and teases the head of John’s dick. “I won’t be offended. Whether you do or don’t, I’m still planning on shagging you into the mattress.”

Just like Sherlock to come to the point with a few blunt words. John finds the overt permission oddly reassuring. For good or ill, he always knows where he stands with this man.

He grasps the hard-on before him at its base, earning a gasp of pleased surprise from Sherlock, and pulls down slightly to slide the foreskin back and expose the head. He represses Basic Anatomy lectures and first-year uni giggles. Shakes his head to clear it. He can do this. It’s just an erect penis, and certainly not the first one he’s seen. Just male anatomy. Nerves. Skin. Muscle. All a trick of circulation and pheromones. (Oh god, now he’s _thinking_ like Sherlock.)

And he’s really going to do this.

The silence seems to go on forever, Sherlock’s paused, waiting for him to act or refuse. And it’s not that John has to do this (or anything, come to think of it). Sherlock’s intelligence and imagination makes him a creative and forgiving lover, though John has the sense that this is the last test. Is he really ready to give Sherlock this most intimate of kisses?

John takes a deep, bracing breath. Sweet, musky, bitter. SHERLOCK, concentrated and distilled. The scent is like a spike to his brainstem -- it tangles in his nose, curling into his sinuses like exotic incense. Heat radiates from Sherlock’s cock. Night-sweat, in the hair at his groin, and - oh god - faint traces of lube, of the (absolutely knee-shaking) sex they had last night, before the equally-lazy shower. He can smell sex in the bedclothes as well, heat and friction reactivating pheromones. God, it’s amazing. He follows the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, but the scent dissipates rapidly towards the iliac crest. Better to run his nose downwards, in towards the centre. Yes, sweat and pheromones and sweet musk. A sharper note -- that’s arousal. Tangy and salty and heavenly.

Sherlock’s cock twitches and bumps against his cheek and forehead -- absolutely gorgeous. The scent is like clove or pepper or something bitter and sweet and spicy. Stronger around his balls, perfectly delicious, god, he wants to push them aside and nuzzle behind them. Suddenly he realizes two things: first, that his mouth is open and salivating madly; and second, that he’s been huffing his flatmate for over two minutes. No, wait, third thing - Sherlock has stopped sucking his cock. His head is buried against John’s thigh, panting like he’s run a four-minute mile. His pale eyes, as he looks back along John’s body, are feral, the pupils almost completely blown.

“S-sorry,” John stutters, but Sherlock groans impatiently, reaches out to rake his fingers through John’s hair and _tugs_ his head downwards till John’s nose is firmly pressed into Sherlock’s balls. John inhales deeply, open-mouthed. Can’t help it -- it’s incredible, like his sinuses and his hindbrain and his dick are wired straight to one another. Sherlock makes a sort of choking moan, and John pushes his whole face into Sherlock’s groin, pulling that utterly delicious scent in through nose and mouth. Sherlock’s hips twist slowly against his face, rubbing his dick over John’s cheek and jaw, leaking little trails of pre-come, peppery and tangy and warmly spicy and GOD…

Self-conscious for a moment, he pauses. “Should I…?”

“No!” Sherlock gasps into his thigh. “S’all right… The nose…” he inhales sharply, “…is an i-incredibly imp-p-portant tool in ob - god, yes - servation. You should - FUCK - definitely use all your - your t-tools - god, John, suck my cock, PLEASE.” The hand in his hair flexes, trying to position him correctly, blindly. Yes, god, yes yes anything for this. John closes his eyes, captures that beautiful head in his open mouth, and swallows.

Musk. Heat. Silk on his tongue. Tangy salt - pre-come, like his own, but subtly different. Unique. He pulls off, sucking hard, the way he knows he likes himself, then slides down, wanting to take Sherlock’s cock deeper in his mouth…

…And very nearly loses control of himself when Sherlock, in apparent gratitude, sucks him with that rolling tongue flick that has his hips bucking. He pulls off with a cry.

“Less. Less,” he begs. “I’m afraid I’ll bite you or something.”

Obediently, Sherlock relaxes back into a slow and easy rhythm that can keep John pleasantly aroused for hours without making him commit to orgasm. Groaning happily, John turns his attention back to what he’s doing. Sherlock’s cock glistens, slick with saliva and fluids. It’s entrancing, and he licks firmly at the head, flicking his tongue under the crown, rubbing at the bundle of nerves just next to the frenulum. Sherlock grunts, and retaliates by pressing John’s thigh to the mattress, leaning over him to swallow John as far as he can.

 _Christ_. He reaches down with his free hand to tangle fingers in the dark silk of Sherlock’s hair. Fucks up into his mouth, surely and steadily against the suction that grows stronger and stronger. Sex between them is always the most fantastic battle of wills, and there’s nothing more arousing than having a lover strong enough to take whatever he dishes out.

He leans over Sherlock’s hips, drawing him deeper. Sherlock presses into his mouth, a careful and controlled thrust. His fist around the root of Sherlock’s cock prevents it from sliding too deep. (So THAT’s why porn stars hold it that way.) He hums at the feeling of being invaded this way, of sucking hard even as Sherlock sucks him. Sherlock’s hips rock up into his mouth. He breathes through his nose. Moves faster. Every inhale is more musk, more sweat, more Sherlock. He takes each stroke, relaxing his hand a little so he can draw more and more into his mouth. Can’t take him all, though he’d love to. He’ll have to have Sherlock -- who seems to have no gag reflex whatsoever -- show him how it’s done.

To his delight, the sweat builds. Sherlock’s movements start to stutter. He pulls off John’s dick to gasp and swear. John takes a rather sadistic pleasure in doing everything he can to make Sherlock miss a beat in his own oral attentions. He slides his hands along the creases where Sherlock’s thighs meet his hips. Teases the backs of his knees. Slips his hands beneath Sherlock’s tight little arse. Kneads, moaning his pleasure. Whoever thought this could be so much fun?

But when he ghosts his fingers along Sherlock’s sides, Sherlock shouts and wriggles away, giggling breathlessly.

His lover is ticklish. _Sherlock_ is _ticklish_. Oh, revenge is a dish best served panting and hot. He sucks hard, tickling to find just the right spot. Riding Sherlock as he bucks, squirming in a way that says he can’t decides if he’s trying to get away or to roll into it. Smiling madly around his mouthful of cock, John pursues, but loses track of the edge of the bed.

There’s a sucking ‘pop’ as Sherlock falls off the bed and solidly onto his arse.

“Sorry,” John says on reflex. “Sorry, I…” And he’s already giggling.

Sherlock looks daggers at him. Sharp, eviscerating daggers.

Unfortunately, that thought only makes John laugh harder. “… landed you on your arse.”

Sherlock launches himself from the floor. Snatches the lube from the drawer. Pins John to the bed. Kisses him bruisingly. John’s knees rise on either side of Sherlock’s hips, a reflex. Sherlock slides against him in tiny, teasing motions. It’s maddening in the best way, making John claw at his back, though damned if he’s in a position to do anything.

Sherlock, sleekly triumphant, pulls back from the kiss. Slides back down John’s body. Raises an insolent eyebrow at him.

John knows a cue when he sees it. “Please?”

Sherlock waxes dramatic with the application of lube to his fingers, an action that evokes a very physical response, since it’s a direct precursor to Sherlock stretching and then fucking him.

With an absolutely wicked grin, the detective applies slicked fingers to John’s arse. Pushes in. Takes his dick down that smooth and muscled throat in one go.

All John’s breath leaves him in one explosive “FUCK”. He’s gasping after that, unable to catch up with Sherlock’s merciless strokes, his quick and punishing rhythm. John tries to hold out against the twin assault, but it’s pretty much hopeless. Sherlock knows every twist. Every lick. Every stroke that will turn John to jelly. He plays John like the virtuoso he is until John’s begging and cursing in turns, desperate to feel Sherlock inside him. Or to come. Or both. Both would be the best.

Sherlock licks a long, cool line up John’s belly. Up his chest, with a brief detour over to his right nipple. (Of course the bastard remembers that’s the more sensitive of the two.) Bites his shoulder just hard enough. John hooks his knees over Sherlock’s arms, baring himself. Sherlock slides inside him in one smooth, stretching thrust. John presses up into it. Wanting. Needing. Desperate for the ecstasy that is a good, hard fuck with this amazing man.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, even as he slides against him with long, leisurely strokes.

He scrambles for coherent thought. “For… f’what?”

“For what you did.” Sherlock’s voice is always a gorgeous rumble, but never so hot as when it’s at this low purr. “It’s been a long time for me.”

“Welcome,” he manages, even as he’s gasping at how fantastic each thrust feels. “I did… okay?”

“Brilliant.” Sherlock nips him under his chin. “Had you wanted to?”

Frankly, before this morning, he hadn’t given it much conscious thought. Now, his mouth waters at the remembered taste.

“Would you want to… again?” There’s a caution to the question, as if Sherlock’s become accustomed to being refused.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Oh GOD yes. I want to taste you again.”

“You liked feeling it? My cock on your tongue?” Sherlock bends closer for a more intimate murmur. “Fucking your mouth like I’m fucking you now?”

“Yes.” He swallows hard against the dizzying release of the confession. “I loved it. Oh God, Sherlock I LOVED it!”

With a low growl of satisfaction, Sherlock brings him right up to the edge of orgasm, then slows his strokes to a torturous pace, ramping John back down.

“Please.” The word tastes decadent. “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock switches tempos abruptly. Pounds him harder and harder until he’s howling.

This is usually the point where he comes screaming and cursing and Sherlock finishes with a low, satisfied moan and a gush of hot wetness. But not this time. Sherlock returns to the other rhythm, a sexual dogtrot he can maintain for a ridiculously long time, keeping him and John both simmering without letting either of them come.

John’s going to kill him. Or kiss him. Maybe both. “What?”

Sherlock gazes down at him with veiled eyes. It’s like he hasn’t yet decided what to do and is weighing the options. It’s also a slightly unsettling thing to see in someone who is expertly fucking you up the arse.

“What else?” he says at last.

“S-sherlock?” Only this man would want coherent thought out of him at a moment like this.

“It _was_ a fantasy, even if you didn’t know it yet,” says Sherlock. “What else?”

The situation strikes him funny. “You’re going to hold me at the edge until I talk, aren’t you?”

Sherlock kisses him quick and rough. “If that’s what it takes.”

An involuntary shiver runs through him at having Sherlock’s curiosity focussed on him. He and Sherlock have had a daily routine. Usually started with either hand-job or blowjob or full sex, then a shower, then John would go to work. He’s pretty well resigned himself to being late to work most mornings, but isn’t used to this kind of talk in the middle of things. It’s a bit scary, and also scarily erotic. “Erm. I want to tie you up?”

Sherlock grins wolfishly. “Wrists or ankles?”

His hands find their way to Sherlock’s arse, encouraging the strokes. “Wrists. Bound together, to the headboard.” The thought of Sherlock, laid out before him, sends a welcome flush of heat all across his skin.

“I would be helpless,” says the intrigued purr.

“Yes,” he gasps. “I want you… helpless.”

Sherlock pulls out. Flips him over onto his stomach. Pulls his hips up just enough to bare his arse. John keeps his knees together. Presses up as Sherlock’s legs force his more tightly together. He welcomes that gorgeous cock as it slams home. Sherlock is a welcome heat. A delightful weight. Stronger and more arrogant in his confidence than any lover he’s ever had, and John adores him for it.

“What else?” Sherlock demands.

The fantasy bursts fully-formed into his imagination. “I want to take the sash from your robe and gag you with it,” he says. “Use it like reins while I ride you down into the mattress. Fuck you so hard we break the bed.”

Sherlock makes a sound of strangled lust. Pounds into him, a heady rush that verges on pain, but is all pleasure. “You want it rough?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock twists his good right arm up hard behind his back. “Even this rough?”

“Yes!” He rocks back into every bruising thrust. Struggles just so he can feel the bliss of Sherlock holding him down.

Sherlock pulls a little harder on John’s arm. Wraps his other hand around John’s throat. Pulls his head up. “And this?”

He’s going to come. He’s seeing stars already, and not from the lack of air. His heart’s pounding. His blood races. Adrenaline is a sweet drug, and they haven’t had a shag this hot since they escaped a rain of bullets, made it home alive, and Sherlock bent him over the table and fucked him so hard they moved the table two feet.

“YES!” His voice is a raspy croak, and he’s never loved Sherlock more.

Sherlock slides his knees between John’s, forcing them apart. The hand is hard at his throat. The other presses his arm into his back. Sherlock’s hips slap against his arse, his breathing stuttering and uneven. He’s going to come, and take John with him.

“Yes,” John whispers. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” It’s a litany between gasps.

The moan starts low in Sherlock’s throat. “Say you’ll do it. Say you will.”

And from some inner reserve he didn’t even know he had comes a deadly calm voice. “I swear on my honour I will tie you up and fuck you till you beg for mercy.”

Sherlock comes shouting. Jets deep inside him. Lets go of his arm and throat. Thrusts again and again. John’s lost to pleasure. Feels the wet heat of his own cock’s release. Coming. He’s coming with Sherlock.

And then there is only silence, and the pleasant weight of his lover pinning him down, this time in release. Star-spangled lights dance before his eyes as the slow, warm rush of afterglow sets in.

“Christ Almighty,” he manages at last.

A low chuckle in his ear. “Quite.”

He smiles to himself through a fog of bliss and heat. “I hate you, you know.”

“No, you don’t,” says Sherlock, sounding similarly satisfied.

“How can I be expected to get up and go to work after something like that?”

Sherlock nuzzles his neck. “You could stay here.”

And for a moment, he’s tempted. “I really can’t.”

Sherlock lays his hands over John’s and laces their fingers. “But you will come home?”

“And tie you up and fuck you?” John says. “I believe you can count on it, you complete wanker. You know I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else today.”

Sherlock gently pulls out. John rolls over beneath him. Pulls him back down for a long, seeking kiss.

“Why you?” John asks at last.

“Why not me?” Sherlock counters.

John shrugs. “Good a reason as any. And though I loved this more than I can say, would you please get off me so I can go shower?”

Sherlock presses down harder, with just enough persuasive tongue in his kiss to almost make John rethink.

“Fucking unrepentant…” John swears into his lover’s mouth. “I love you, now get off me.”

Sherlock goes still. Then John realizes what he just said. Sherlock pulls back, eyes veiled and cautious.

And John has a choice here. He could play the “I love you” off as a slip of the tongue, but they both know it wasn’t. He holds his lover so they’re pressed groin to groin. Wraps one leg over one of Sherlock’s to prevent escape.

“I did mean it,” he says. “I love you. And if that’s not how it is with you, it’s all right. It’s also all right if you don’t want to say it. Or whatever. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

The slight high flush on Sherlock’s cheeks may well be one of the most beautiful things John’s ever seen. “I know,” he says softly.

The kiss says the words John doesn’t ever really expect to hear. And it is fine, because some blokes are just like that and Sherlock probably is one. He’s just not the kind to dwell too much in emotion. Pleasure, yes, but emotion is something else.

Sherlock will give him trust and respect. He’ll give him his home and his body and his pleasure. He’ll even give him the thrill of being his partner, of helping to solve the crimes that are at the centre of his raison d’etre. But he’ll never give him flowery words or deeds. No chocolates or romantic dates.

Sherlock will give John anything, up to and including his life, but never syrupy confessions… but never roses.


End file.
